The Weekly °

Bio

Kat Malo is a Philadelphia based artist, writer, photographer, and sometimes model. She is a lover of well-crafted sentences, beautifully framed images, and high-quality cups of coffee (oh, and good whiskey too). She is also an administrator on the new East Coast Creative Collective, which is a selected group of young artists that value collaboration, community, and creativity. She was a feature at two Thirty West Presents readings in 2017.

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Writing

11:11 Make a wish.

I wish I never met you. I wish you were here right now. I wish I could get you out of my mind. I can't, so I am going out of my mind. I wish I actually would go out of my mind. Leave this place and live in another time. Where we never met. Or just have not met yet. A place where I am aware of all my flaws and do not let them get in the way. Where I know all of your flaws and I can tiptoe around them. A place where I know all the right things to do and say.

A place where you know all the right things to do and say. A place where you can admit you are wrong. Where one drink does not turn into 3...4...5...6. A place where you do not have to apologize for the marks on my body the next day. A place where you grip my arm begging me to stay. Listing all the reasons that you love me, rather than gripping my arm as I am frantically trying to get away from you. Someplace where you are pushing me up against the wall with passion, not pinning me in place as you breathe your violent rage onto my face. A place where love is more than an "I'm sorry," in the morning, as I am still deaf from your screams just hours prior.

I wish I never met you. I wish you were here right now. I would like to see you just one last time. I wish we could have one last kiss. So I could watch you bleed for me after I bite that disgusting smug smirk off your face.

Untitled

Maybe if I hold my breath, the floating broken souls will take me in as one of their own. I am not so different. Alive, but not living. Just barely existing. Drifting through the city, among the living, trying hard to fit in.

But, rest in peace is not for me. I would rather rest in poison. Haunting your every move, as you go through life. A whisper in your ear, just when you think everything is going right. A gentle caress that wakes you in the night. You'll stare in the mirror, asking yourself, if you've lost your mind. Feeling your stomach drop, only to see me in the reflection, standing behind.

I do not need to hold my breath though, I know I still float around in your head. Every day without me is a reminder that I exist. Haunting all your thoughts, without lying six feet deep.

My body twitches. This wakes me up. You’re not next to me. It’s the middle of the night. Where are you? It’s quiet. Too quiet. Fuck. I know what’s coming. The bedroom door swings open but doesn’t make a sound. The lights flash on, but it is still quiet. All I can hear is the sound of the lights in the ceiling. Not a flickering sound, but that electric ringing sound. I hate that sound. I hate that look on your face. You look so proud of yourself. You must think you know something. Your eyes are slits that barely let any light in. How are you even standing upright? I wonder if you drank all the whiskey or just most of it. Your mouth starts to curl. Here we go.

You’re yelling. You’re slurring. You’re beating me with your words. There are times, I wish you were beating me with fists; it would probably hurt less. Insults and accusations are projecting straight at me. You won’t remember this tomorrow, but it has been engrained in my mind from the last hundred times. I wish you would reserve this emotional vomit for the bathroom, where you’ll be kneeling in an hour. Then again, in the morning, this time sick with apologies and tears.

This same scene has replayed so many times, surprised it still plays without skipping; I don’t even hear what you’re saying anymore. All I can hear is that electric ringing of the lights. I hate that fucking sound.